


Synchronicity

by EatYourSparkOut



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Breeding, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, M/M, Predator/Prey, Rough Sex, Self-Esteem Issues, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Tentacles, Teratophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-01
Updated: 2019-11-13
Packaged: 2020-12-12 04:51:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20985764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EatYourSparkOut/pseuds/EatYourSparkOut
Summary: There's a sparkeater hunting Rung.Only when it catches him, it wants more than his spark.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while since I wrote something ~questionable~
> 
> I figure this doesn't qualify as beastiality, since we've established that sparkeaters were once ordinary TFs, and they're presumably some level of sentient/intelligent. But do mind the tags. This isn't a nice fic.
> 
> *Throws this @ AO3* Happy Halloween 💀

Rung is barely aware of what’s going on. 

Ten kliks ago, he’d been preoccupied with carefully arranging his models on the shelves of what would soon be his new office. He’d hardly gotten started when Skids had dropped in through the ceiling unannounced, and proceeded to scoop him unceremoniously from the room. 

Now, he’s following a mech he barely knows through the cramped vents of an unfamiliar spaceship, with only a half-formed conception of the danger that they’re in. And yet in this moment, blind faith is all that he has. So he follows.

Rung knows _of_ Skids, of course (having been the one to approve his pre-mission psych evals at Prowl’s request for the better part of a millennia), but that doesn’t lend the kind of insight that a professional relationship might. Until now, Skids has only existed in the abstract—another potential patient, hovering in his periphery. 

What Rung does know of Skids is gleaned from those scant recordings. He knows that he wears his confidence like a heavy cloak; that he has a tendency to hold his cards close to the spark, and has a mission success rate that surpasses most. In all of the interviews Rung has assessed, only once has he witnessed Skids drop that self-assured mask, to speak in low tones about a missing stretch of time that needles him when he’s alone. 

Rung has his suspicions. He thinks of the murky trauma which clings to so many of the special operatives. But Skids isn’t his patient—not yet—at least, so he won’t speculate. 

Suffice to say, he’s rarely seen the agent exude anything other than easy competence, and that makes the tension buzzing in his field all the more alarming. 

Still, while it doesn’t soothe him, he can’t help but appreciate it. He’s one crewmember of many, and Skids is under no obligation to put his life at risk to escort him. _Surely_, there are other mecha that need his protection. It’s a novelty, having someone go out of their way to ensure his safety.

And even if Skids has undertaken this mission out of a sense of duty—as a non-combatant, Rung supposes that he _is_, technically, one of the more vulnerable individuals on the ship—Skids is certainly under no obligation to express such genuine concern for his well-being. They’re practically strangers, after all. 

It reinforces Rung’s impression of him as a kind and conscientious individual, and he thinks that if it weren’t for the obvious ethical dilemma, Skids is exactly the kind of mech he’d be inclined to make friends with. 

Unfortunately, Rung has learned that in his position, fostering strong relationships is ill-advised. As one of the few remaining psychologists to a species wracked by an immeasurably long war—and all of its horrors—his duty of care is staggeringly wide. A degree of professional separation from the crew is both essential, and non-negotiable. 

Of course, it’s a double-edged sword; the professional isolation he holds himself to is what had led him to blur the lines the last time he was on a ship like this—unprepared for the close quarters of lonely space. He’s more experienced now, but the similarity of the situation doesn’t escape him. 

He’s determined to do better—to _be_ better—this time. 

Rung has been doing his best to keep up with Skids’ explanation, but he’s rattled, and more focused on willing himself through the narrow space. His processor is supposed to be optimized for this kind of thing—listening, that is—and yet at some point between Skids’ unexpected appearance and now, it appears to have become a sieve. What little information doesn’t trickle straight through doesn’t do much to reassure him.

Rung doesn’t like not being able to help. Soothing mecha, stabilizing a situation—these are the things he’s supposed to be _good_ at. Instead, he's the one who feels in need of reassurance, as he scoots on his knees behind his would-be rescuer. 

The air in the vents is thick with disquiet, making the space feel all the more claustrophobic. The walls are squeezing in on him, and they feel tighter and tighter the longer they crawl—though he knows that can’t be true. Trapped in the narrow passages, their ventilations cycle back to buffet them with hot air, and Rung can feel the condensation beading on his armour, trickling down and into his seams. Skids had pressed the necessity of being quiet, and the scrape of metal against metal as they shuffle down the passageway is much too loud. It’s sure to give them away. 

It’s mostly Rung’s fault. Despite his small stature, he doesn’t have Skids’ practice. He’s never had to purposefully _try_ at making himself unnoticed, and he’s clumsy and uncoordinated—bumping against walls as they turn corners, and leaving behind scrapes of paint. He might as well be leaving a trail of rust sticks in his wake. 

Skids seems to think so too. Rung notes the way his helm darts side to side, checking the adjacent passageways with sharp optics to make sure no monster lurks in the deep. A _sparkeater_, he’d said, and that seems impossible, but Rung is shaken enough not to question it. 

He supposes that it’s par for the course. Bad luck has followed him for as long as he can remember. He doesn’t know what it is that causes things to _happen_ around him, but for someone well-accustomed to fading into the background, Rung always seems to find himself at the centre of some dilemma. 

So it’s a shock, but also somehow inevitable, when something slithers up his foot. He starts violently at the brush of dry metal, but before he can do more than gasp, something strong, and unnaturally prehensile has wrapped itself around his ankle, gripping it with incredible force.

“Skids!” he calls, a little frantically, but it's impossible for Skids to whip around in the tight space, and he can only look back over his shoulder. Rung’s optics have blown wide with fear, but of course, he has his glasses on, so Skids won’t be able to tell. 

“Rung?” Skids demands. He stretches a servo behind him—palm open in offering—and Rung reaches to meet him, though he _knows_ it's too late.

By now, the thing has slid further up his leg to encircle his thigh—the barbed metal biting hard enough to sting—and another has wound firmly around his remaining foot. Rung casts one last, desperate look at Skids, and watches as the magnitude of the situation sets in hard lines across his face. Their fingers brush—so close—and then he’s being yanked away by the monster’s iron grip.

His helm hits the metal of the shaft as he’s hauled abruptly backwards, and it stuns him for a nanoklik. Sparks bloom in his processor, and his limbs go momentarily unresponsive, which makes it easier for the sparkeater—for what _else_ can it be—to haul him around the corner where it’s been lurking. He can just barely hear Skids in the distance, calling for him to hold on. 

Once his head is clear again—still throbbing with the impact—the panic spikes. Rung scrabbles at the bottom of the vent, but his fingers slide uselessly against the smooth metal, unable to gain any kind of purchase. He’s on his stomach, and the momentum makes it so that he can’t even turn over to see what it is, exactly, that has ahold of him. 

“_We’re coming_,” Skids shouts, but he sounds so far away already, his voice echoing faintly in the maze of tunnels. The horrible skittering of the monster’s fingers—claws?—fills the space between them, as it pulls Rung away from his only chance at rescue. 

The sparkeater moves with uncanny speed, and has no problem traversing the vents every which way. A lack of ladders doesn’t prevent it from ascending the chutes vertically, with Rung in tow. He hopes, a little hysterically, that Skids has brought his grappling hook. 

The energon rushes to fill his head as he dangles, and it’s even more difficult to think around the pounding of his processor. Despite the futility of it, he struggles—in the hopes that it will drop him. The fall will, at the very least, ensure that he won’t be forced to bear painful witness to his end. But he has no such luck. The creature scrambles over the lip of another chute, and pulls him over with it. 

Evidently tired of his wriggling, it uses its grip on his legs to to slam him against the side of the chute. The impact steals the air from his vents, and sparks dance in his vision. 

He blacks out. 

_____

Rung onlines with a rattling gasp.

He’s hit with a residual wave of fear—a spectral panic which flits across his sensornet before he can even figure out what it is that he’s supposed to be panicked _about_. But then the tendrils wind tighter around his legs and hips, biting into his seams, and he remembers. 

They’ve emerged from the ventilation system, that much is clear. He’s been dumped on the floor of a room which looks like any other—bare, save for the two unassigned recharge slabs. Somehow, despite the tentacles, he manages to twist to a seated position, and when his optics finally come into focus, what he sees makes his fuel tank thud against the inside of his chassis.

The sparkeater is a hideous, horrifying creature—plucked straight from the collective nightmares of generations of Cybertronians. Rung is no stranger to nightmares himself—presumptuous servos, sliding against his plating, a pair of cold optics, declaring him _nothing_—but this is the kind of waking dream that leaves one trembling with cold terror. 

Its plating is pitted with corrosion, a faint green-grey, reminiscent of the nearly dead. Paint flakes from its armour, and falls to the ground as it shifts—the creak of its joints sending a shiver up Rung’s spinal strut. It seems too gaunt to be a living thing, but its optics shine with a feral light that speaks of predatory intent. 

It hasn’t moved yet, beyond the slight sway with which it stands, watching him. 

Utterly silent, it watches him. 

Rung is frozen, afraid to even twitch for fear of provoking an attack.

And then finally, it takes a step closer—the movement unnaturally smooth for how decrepit it looks.

Rung offlines his optics again, so that he doesn’t have to look. He braces himself for the end, and spares a brief moment to regret that no one will mourn him. 

He waits. 

And waits.

And when the inevitable fails to occur, confusion blooms in his field—mixes with the swirling fear—and the result is a horrible cocktail of anxiety, and throttled anticipation. 

Another moment passes, and when the creature still fails to fall on him with the ferocity he’s expecting, Rung onlines his optics.

He starts violently, just barely managing to throttle his instinctive gasp.

A pair of ravenous optics burn into his own. The sparkeater is close enough to touch, leaning down to observe him with that same, unfathomable hunger. He can’t understand why it hasn’t ripped into him yet—torn the civilian-grade plating from his frame to get to the spark fluttering erratically underneath—but as he holds in his vents, afraid to even tremble for fear of antagonizing it, the sparkeater simply tilts its head. 

“D-do you speak?” Rung asks, if only because the way it’s regarding him speaks to some level of intelligence.

A low, rattling sound begins deep in its chest. 

It’s something. Rung steels himself for another shaky attempt.

“Please—” 

The sparkeater snarls.

He’s picked up again, and shoved against the wall. The impact shudders through him—paper-thin armour doing little to cushion the impact—and he suspects that at this point he’s probably acquired some degree of processor damage. The stars dancing at the edges of his vision concur. 

The sparkeater follows, crowding him until he can feel the sickly hot gust of its ventilations. He’s almost woozy with fear—or maybe that’s the damage—but his frame remains out of his control, and he can only slump in the cage of its limbs. He wills himself absolutely still as it reaches with one clawed servo, and drags its claws down the glass portal which covers his spark.

Rung is well-acquainted with helplessness—vulnerability—but never has he felt so _exposed_. He shivers. All the sparkeater needs to do to claim its prize is to punch through the thin shield of his chest.

That’s not what it does, however. Instead, it leans in, and licks a stripe straight across the window. Rung’s vents hitch, his spark leaping into his throat. 

The sparkeater seems to like that; the tattered edges of its field bleeding an alien satisfaction. It seems fascinated by his spark—the erratic flickering behind the glass. It must be his spark, for he can’t think of any other reason for him to hold its attention. 

Does it play with all of its food this way? If so, it’s immeasurably cruel.

Another lick against the glass, and he squirms desperately, trying to wriggle away from the scaly tongue.

It doesn’t seem to like that as much, hissing sharply.

Rung freezes immediately. 

“Y-you want me t-to stay put?” he breathes. He doesn't expect it to answer him, but talking helps him regain some small sense of control, and he clings to the vain hope that if he can just stall, it will give Skids time to find him.

The sparkeater snaps its head up, eyeing him with renewed intensity. Before he can even begin to fathom its expression, he’s being manhandled yet again—dragged away from the wall, and shoved face down onto the floor. It rearranges him like a doll, its tentacles winding around his limbs, to prop him up onto his knees and elbows.

Why hasn’t it _killed_ him yet?

The sparkeater is growling—no, actually it _isn’t_ growling, he realizes. It’s _purring_ as it presses up behind him, and that causes the alarms in his head to blare bright and sharp. 

Somehow, the feel of its servos on his frame is the worst of all. The tentacles are uncomfortable, but they merely exist to bind him—cold and impersonal. The rough drag of its palms—across his hips, his thighs—is something else, and the acrid fear running through his lines takes on another flavour entirely.

Rung’s struggling begins anew, but in the vice of its tentacles he’s helpless. They wind tighter, and pull him flush against the sparkeater. Its plating is warm—feverishly so—and he’s not sure why he’d expected the chill of a corpse.

The sparkeater’s servos snake under him, and it maps out his pelvic array with clumsy intent. When it finds the transformation seams for his equipment, it digs in with sharp claws to worm its way between the cracks. It pulls at the panel in clear warning; if he doesn’t open, it won’t hesitate to rip it off. 

Rung spares a moment to wonder—a little hysterically—_why_, but it’s all happening so fast that he can hardly think, let alone react. He’s been trained to be adaptable, to approach situations with a calm and critical optic. He should _know_ what to do. It’s not as though he hasn’t been in tense situations before, as though he hasn’t dealt with intimate threats against his person. But Rung knows people, not monsters—as thin as the line may stretch at times.

He scrambles for a solution—any way out of this nightmarish scenario. The sparkeater takes the choice from him a moment later, as it locates the manual latch for his panel. Rung’s old enough that he doesn’t have the fully automatic arrays which came into vogue later, and now the design betrays him. 

_No, no, no_. 

He can’t see what’s happening, and he’s not sure if that makes it better, or worse. The sparkeater purrs louder, rubbing the flat of its fingers against his exposed mesh with little finesse, and to his shame his vents hitch. The monster is greedy though, and the next moment something much bigger is rubbing against the underside of his valve. 

It’s heavily textured, catching against his anterior node in a way that’s almost painful, but his frame has begun to lubricate without his permission, and it makes the slide easier. He knows that he should _want_ it easier. If he’s to endure this, the last thing he needs is permanent damage to serve as a reminder.

The sparkeater grinds against him, and Rung’s mind goes despairingly blank. He can’t help it; he whimpers. The sparkeater certainly likes _that_, bucking forward with a growl. It curls over him, encasing him like a shadow, and then it starts to rut. 

Rung clutches at the floor, and tries not to whimper. Its spike—and now that he’s thought it, he can’t take it back—bumps against the nodes at the rim of his valve, sparking hot little bursts of pleasure. 

He’s revulsed, but his frame isn’t on the same page as his processor, and as his legs are spread wider, his head pressed to the ground, a queasy thrill rips through him. He buries his face in the floor, disgusted with himself. 

The shameful flame kindling in his midsection ignites with a roar when the sparkeater pushes in. Its spike cleaves through his calipers like they’re nothing but hot oil, and a hundred sensors light up at once. 

“_Oh_,” he gasps, curling his fingers against the cold tile. 

The tentacles tighten around his thighs, dragging him back into the next thrust. It’s too much. He hasn’t been touched in—millennia, at least. He’s certain its longer. 

Rung tries to imagine that it’s someone else- one of the nameless partners of old, whose faces are gone, but whose touches linger. His processor briefly conjures up a flash of orange paint, and kind, sorrowful optics. But the fantasy is soon crowded out by more assertive ghosts. . 

_Mph! You know, if you ever get tired of having your papers endlessly rejected, I’m sure you could lucrative career out of this. Finally give up on those sad fantasies you call theories._

_Oh, I’m positive that we can find a function for you. And won’t that be exciting? You’ll finally be able to contribute something of worth. Now, why don’t you turn around for me—there’s a good bot_.

Rung overloads with a low whine. The humiliation is cloying, but the pleasure even more so—seeping deep into his neural net and making it difficult to do anything but hold on as the sparkeater continues to drive into him. He thinks that if its tentacles weren’t anchoring him in place, he’d be sliding across the floor right now. 

The stretch burns—just on the edge of painful—but its spike prods against nodes far out of the reach of his fingers, and they flicker back to life with enthusiasm. Rung’s valve cycles down automatically, eager to keep it pressed—_oh yes, there_. 

He wonders why he hasn’t begun disassociating by now. He wishes he would. Anything to keep him from feeling like such a willing participant in this. A deep grind against his ceiling node causes heat to shoot up his spinal strut, and he collapses into the monster’s hold. 

The sparkeater snarls, overloads with a jerk of its hips, and a searing gush of transfluid. Rung has barely had the chance to feel relief at the possibility that they might be done, before he realizes that the sparkeater hasn’t stopped. If anything, it feels as though it’s picked up the pace. 

The single-minded way that it chases its pleasure in him—the way that it grips him tight, and hisses and purrs with each thrust—it reminds him of the nature vids he’s seen, of mechanimals propagating. He tries again to conjure a phantom lover—something more like a mech, who’ll talk to him, and take care to find all of his weak points—but the monster isn’t content to let him fantasize, and a particularly deep growl and thrust snaps him back to his hollow reality. 

Rung teeters on the edge of despair and lonely desire. 

The sparkeater croons low in its intake, and he breaks.

On the next thrust, he doesn’t bother to swallow his sob. He’s being used, but at least he’s _wanted_, and that’s what his processor latches onto as the spike rakes against internal nodes, and electrifies his sensornet. 

And he’s wet; he’s so wet. The lubricant is dripping down between them and the slick, obscene noise of their coupling makes him flush with heat. The words are pouring from his vocalizer, a litany of ‘oh’ and ‘please’ pouring forth from a voice that wavers and cracks with humiliation, and from the deep, spark-rending pleasure. And if his servos were free he’d… 

The sparkeater overloads again, messy and desperate for fulfillment, and its spike seems to swell within him—the ridges flare, digging into aching mesh and tingling nodes. Rung almost overloads again himself, the ecstasy ricocheting throughout his frame.

The sparkeater wrenches itself free, and he’s equal parts disappointed and grateful, but then it flips him over, and that’s worse. Now he can’t help but look at it—at the awful carnal light in its optics, as the tentacles wind possessively around his waist, up and around his throat. He doesn’t have the strength to fight, and can only arch in its hold as it slides back into him. 

He’s split open again and again, as it grinds repeatedly against the back of his valve. And then to his dismay he’s gasping for more, harder, and he’s reaching for his node, rolling the slick, swollen nub under his thumb and moaning so wantonly that he’ll never forgive himself. He bears down, rubbing desperately in the hopes that the overload dangling just out of reach will finally crash over him. 

The sparkeater stops rutting, and the overload drifts a little farther away. Rung doesn’t have time to feel disappointed this time, as it digs its claws into his chest plate. The fear—dulled to a throbbing undercurrent—swamps him again. The claws wedge in-between his transformation seams, and begin to pry them apart. Self-preservation wars with the knowledge that he has no chance of fending it off. Another pointed thrust, and his struts go deliriously weak. 

Rung hiccups, triggers the command for his chestplates to open, and the sparkeater bares its fangs triumphantly. 

This is it, then. It’s had its fun, and now he’s to die the most humiliating death in the history of Cybertron. A strangled laugh escapes him, as he realizes that he’s likely to make more of an impression in death than he ever did in life. 

The sparkeater’s tongue lolls out of its mouth, and the oral lubricant that drips down to splatter against his plating _burns_. It drips into his spark, and sizzles, and Rung jerks as his processor translates the feedback as both intensely painful and pleasurable. He doesn’t close his optics this time, numbly resigned, and determined to meet his end with as much dignity as he can manage for someone impaled on a monster’s spike. 

But again, the sparkeater refrains from unhinging its jaw and swallowing him down. Instead, its own chestplates crack, spilling a poisonous, green light over them. Its spark looks wrong—twisted, and viscous, and it pulses wetly in the dark of the room,

Is _that_ what this has been about? Does it think to _spark_ him? 

_Breed you_ his processor offers unhelpfully, and his valve ripples around the sparkeater’s spike in a vain attempt to draw it deeper. 

It won't work. He’s had a buffer installed for as long as he can remember—to keep his spark from budding in the case of a merge, whatever the unlikelihood of that. Besides, he’s so old that he doubts that he even has the capacity for creation. _Everything_ about this situation is hilariously archaic—the method of reproduction, _him_—but the sparkeater doesn’t know, or care, about the futility of its quest, and it leans in. 

Rung’s never hated the idea of anything so much. He doesnt want that infectious aura anywhere near him—shudders at what it might feel like sliding against his own—but the resumed grind of the sparkeater’s spike against his ceiling node has him on the edge of overload again, and there’s a morbid desire brewing in his spark. 

The sparkeater rumbles low in its chest, pulling him closer, and the corona of its spark licks against his—a little flash of ecstasy. 

He needs, he needs—

Someone bursts through the door, and Rung snaps rigid with overload. He turns his head, and chokes back his moan, shuddering violently through it—but not before he’s seen the shock flitting across the faces of his rescuers, Skids first among them. 

The sparkeater hisses, a little dazedly, but pulls quickly from Rung’s valve as it snaps its chestplates shut. The tentacles slither off of him, and there’s chaos for a moment as it lunges at the mecha in the doorway. It’s no match for so many blasters, however, and Rung hears the thump as it hits the ground, cut off mid-snarl. 

In the aftermath, the only sound in the room is the tick of his plating as it cools. The smell of ozone hangs heavy in the air. 

He refuses to turn his head, because these are his crewmates—his patients. How will he ever have their respect _now_? 

They approach him cautiously, like a wounded mechanimal. The shame could swallow him whole, but he lets them help him up—lets Skids scoop him from the ground and carry him, trembling, out of the room. The silence on the way to medbay is cloying—almost as bad as the syrupy feel of the monster’s transfluid on his armour—but he curls into his plating and tries to focus on the steady in and out of Skids’ vents, and the thick apology of his field. Skids doesn’t have anything to be sorry for, and Rung quietly tells him so, but all that gets is a stricken look, so he goes back to counting his ventilations. 

He’s placed under observation, but of course, there’s no one trained to talk to him. Ratchet tries. They ask him if he’s okay, and he smiles brittly, and assures them that he will be. He cites statistics, assures them that he’s dealt with other mecha in similar situations, and that he knows all of the steps to recovery. 

When he recharges, its fitful. He tosses and turns in the medbay, and everyone assumes that he’s wracked by nightmares—after an ordeal like that, who wouldn’t be? But it’s not the truth at all. In all his dreams, he lets the monster ensnare him. And when he wakes, his spark hangs heavy with shame.

They view him with pity, and it’d be intolerable, if it weren’t for the alternative. Because the alternative is them knowing that there’s a tiny, twisted part of him that didn’t hate it at all. 

And there’s a kind of cruel irony in the attention, in knowing that the incident has forever burned him into the crew’s memory. 

At least this time, no one is liable to forget.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Insert some joke about Primus, and the power of creation.
> 
> Is this still a popular concept? I've been meaning to write this fic forever, and there was so much art back in the day.
> 
> Big shout out to Rung, for taking one for monster fuckers everywhere. What a champ.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn't an actual chapter, I'm afraid! 
> 
> I just wanted to share a commission that I got from [kokokosir](https://twitter.com/kokokosir) ft. this exact scenario. I would've linked it in my last A/N, but unfortunately the version that was on tumblr got swept up in the NSFW purge. I've embedded it below for your viewing pleasure- both the b/w version I commissioned, and the one that I threw some colour onto.
> 
> Super NSFW, so you may want to check over your shoulder before scrolling ;3

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/185504189@N06/49057664702/in/dateposted-public/)

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/185504189@N06/49057680257/in/dateposted-public/)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow kokoko on [Tumblr](https://kokoko-sir.tumblr.com/) or [Twitter](https://twitter.com/kokokosir)!


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